


When This Cruel War is Over

by rsconne



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: American Civil War, Angst, Clexa Endgame, Clexa Halloween Week, F/F, Fluff, Historical AU, Historical Research, I promise, Major Character Injury, Major character death - Freeform, Nerd!Lexa, Supernatural Elements, War violence, but It Will All Turn Out Ok in the End, death is not the end, military hospitals
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-29
Updated: 2017-10-29
Packaged: 2019-01-26 05:10:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12549772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rsconne/pseuds/rsconne
Summary: Clexa Halloween Week Day 5.Professor Lexa Woods' visit to the Arkadia Historical Society sets strange events in motion that Director Clarke Griffin can't explain.  Where has she seen her before?  And why do those green eyes haunt her?





	When This Cruel War is Over

**Author's Note:**

> *title from popular Civil War soldiers' ballad.

Lexa walked up to the handsome, Federal-era brick mansion.  She surveyed it with interest, trying to imagine the imposing façade, with its massive chimneys, tall windows, and decorative brick lintels, as it would have looked a hundred and fifty years earlier.  She paused on the small porch entryway and checked the plaque on the door: Arkadia Historical Society, Saturday 10-3 and by appointment.  She straightened her blazer and rang the shiny brass bell.

A blonde woman in her early thirties opened the door.  “Yes?”

The woman’s piercing blue eyes caught Lexa off guard and she found herself momentarily tongue-tied.  “Hello, I’m Dr. Lexa Woods,” she said, shaking off a stammer.  “I’m here for an appointment with the Director.”  

The other woman just stared at her, almost as if she hadn’t heard Lexa.  She didn’t move. 

Lexa cleared her throat, feeling uncomfortable under the stranger’s gaze.  She glanced down at the memo in her hand.  “A Clarke Griffin?”

“Oh!  Right, sorry,” the woman blurted.  Her face reddened, though she still eyed Lexa with a strange mix of curiosity and—was that _shock_?  “That’s me.”  She opened the door wider for Lexa to enter.  “Please, come in.”  She ushered Lexa into the foyer and closed the door behind her.  “I’m sorry, I completely forgot we had an appointment this afternoon.  I mean, I didn’t _forget_ —I _knew—_ but I got caught up in something and lost track of time.”  She huffed a little in self-annoyance and composed herself.  She held out her hand in introduction.  “Clarke Griffin, nice to meet you.”

“Likewise.  I appreciate you making time to see me.”  The warm pulse of energy that seemed to flow from Clarke’s hand startled Lexa and made her study Clarke’s appearance a little more closely.  _Wow.  She’s…stunning_.  Her hair was drawn up in a loose bun secured with a pencil.  She wore a deep garnet v-neck sweater over a white, collared shirt, and her fitted charcoal trousers clung tastefully through her hips and thighs.  The sleeves of her shirt and sweater were both rolled to the elbows, as if Lexa had caught her in the midst of a project.  The open buttons at her throat drew Lexa’s eye unerringly to Clarke’s cleavage, and Lexa blushed a little herself, realizing that now she was the one being awkward. 

Clarke led her down the hall to a room off the entryway.  Bookshelves and a couple of filing cabinets lined the walls.  Two sturdy wooden tables with green-shaded lamps on them occupied most of the floor space.  They sat down and Clarke said, “So, Dr. Woods, your email said that you’re a History professor at Polis University?”

“Please, call me Lexa.  Yes, I’m working on a project on medical care during the Civil War.  One of the curators at the National Archives mentioned that you have a good collection of material on Civil War medicine.  I was hoping to take a look, and if it seems pertinent, to get permission to research.”  She wasn’t sure that Clarke had really heard her, she still seemed to be looking at Lexa strangely.  “Um, Director Griffin?” Lexa said cautiously.  “Is there something wrong?”

“No!  No, I’m sorry.  You just…reminded me of someone.”  Clarke shook her head to dismiss her errant thoughts and focus on Lexa.   “And it’s Clarke.  Yes, we do have a modest collection of Civil War manuscripts.  In fact, Arkadia—that was the name of the estate back then—served as a hospital during the War.  We have quite a few letters and diaries of soldiers who were hospitalized here, often from ones who—well, didn’t make it.  When the medical staff could, they returned personal belongings to family members or comrades, but sometimes they couldn’t locate anyone.  It didn’t sit well with the Griffin family that soldiers’ effects would just be discarded, so…they kept them.” 

Lexa looked at her curiously.  “The Griffin family?  Is that—”

“My family, yes,” Clarke said with a smile.  She gestured at the room and said, “Arkadia was my family’s home during the war.  They were dedicated Unionists—there were quite a few of them in the city—and the city was in Union hands for most of the war.  When the scale of the wounded became apparent early on, Jedediah Griffin offered up his estate to the War Department for use as a hospital.  Members of the family lived here up into the 1950s, but my grandparents decided they preferred a more modest lifestyle.  They organized the Arkadia Historical Society as a non-profit and museum.  I came on as director about five years ago.”

Lexa raised her eyebrows.  “You must have been pretty young, that’s impressive.”

Clarke laughed.  “Not really,” she said self-deprecatingly.  “My mom’s on the board.  And we’re not a high-profile organization—we don’t get a lot of researchers, and you may have noticed that we only have limited public hours.  The directorship is only a part-time position, more of a caretaker, really.  Don’t get me wrong,” she continued hastily.  “I have some background in art history and archival studies.  But my actual day job is in medicine.  Kind of a perfect fit, really,” she mused.  “Anyway,” she said, redirecting the conversation, “you don’t want to hear my whole life story.”

 _Yes, yes I really do_.  Lexa suppressed the sudden, inappropriate thought.  “No, this is great,” she assured Clarke, her enthusiasm building.  “It’s not often that I get to meet someone who has such a close connection with and deep knowledge of these kinds of historical spaces.”

Clarke’s eyes brightened at Lexa’s interest.  “Would you like the tour?”

Lexa beamed.  “I’d love that.”

They spent the next hour strolling through the downstairs, some of the outbuildings, and the kitchen yard.  Clarke explained the various spaces: the soldiers’ ward; the quarantine room for smallpox and other infectious diseases; the surgery, with its soaked-in bloodstains still darkly visible in the floorboards; the doctors’ quarters; and outside, the grounds where bathing facilities and the grisly-but-necessary morgue would have stood.  Her description was so vivid that Lexa could almost imagine the harried bustle of nurses and orderlies, the rustles and groans of uncomfortable men, and beneath it all, the stench of fear and unwashed bodies and the coppery tang of blood.  Lexa paused to absorb the thoughtful exhibits and displays, impressed with their grasp of the relevant scholarship.  She found herself as much intrigued by Clarke as by the history and displays: the golden glint of the fading afternoon light on her hair, the blue flash of her eyes and animated gestures of her hands as she lost herself in relating a poignant anecdote, the firm curve of her ass in her tailored slacks…. _Wait, what?  Keep it professional, Woods!_

“Some of the more ambulatory cases were housed upstairs, along with quarters for nurses and servants,” Clarke concluded, pointing at the stairwell in the entrance hall.  “I’d take you up, but we don’t really open it for visitors.  It’s mostly storage and private space for the family now.  I have a little apartment for when I end up staying late.”  Her cheeks pinked and she closed her mouth abruptly.

An antique clock in the reading room faintly chimed the hour.  Clarke gasped.  “Is that really the time?”

Lexa fished her phone out of her blazer pocket and checked.  “It is,” she confirmed.

“Oh shit!  I mean—crap!  I mean—”

Lexa cracked up at her flustered embarrassment.  “You don’t have to be formal with me, Clarke,” she said with a grin.  “But I take it you have somewhere you need to be?”

Clarke relaxed.  “Actually yes, I’m meeting friends for dinner and I should have left twenty minutes ago,” she said ruefully.  “I’m sorry to have to cut our time short, you haven’t even had a chance to review our finding aids.”

Lexa dismissed her apologies with a breezy wave of her hand.  “If anything,” she said sincerely, “I should apologize to you for monopolizing your time.  I really enjoyed this, the chance to see everything through the eyes of someone who’s so intimately familiar with it.”  _*Your* eyes_.  “Besides, now I have an excuse to come back,” she said, with an almost teasing lilt to her voice.  _Oh my God, did you just *flirt* with her?  You’re a professional, Lexa!!  Professionals do not flirt with sexy historical society directors!_   “Uh, I mean, if you have time in your schedule,” she finished weakly.

The corners of Clarke’s mouth twitched, and Lexa could have sworn that her eyes flicked, for the briefest of moments, to Lexa’s own lips.  “Oh, I’m sure we can work something out,” she promised, the hint of a smile in her voice.  “Let me get my calendar, I’ll be right back.”  She trotted upstairs and returned a few minutes later with her purse and briefcase on one arm and her planner in her other hand.  She paged through it quickly and made a face.  “I don’t have a lot of time this week, unfortunately.  How about…next Monday evening?”  She did a quick calculation in her head.  “If I leave work on time, I can be here at…6:30?”

Lexa frowned.  “Won’t that make a long day for you?” 

Clarke shrugged.  “I usually pick up dinner and come in a couple nights a week anyway, to check on the building and take care of paperwork.  It’s no bother.”

“All right.  Listen,” she said impulsively, “why don’t you let me bring dinner?”  She mentally cringed even as the words left her mouth.  _Where the hell did that come from!?  Dammit, Lexa, professionals do not buy dinner for sexy historical society directors!_

“That’s…actually really sweet of you, but you don’t—”

“You’re going out of your way for me, it’s the least I can do, Clarke,” Lexa insisted.  “How does Indian sound?”

Clarke’s face softened in a genuine smile.  “That sounds great.  It’s a—”  She hastily cleared her throat and her eyes darted away from Lexa’s.  “Um, ok, then.  I’ll see you Monday.”

 _Did she almost say what I think she almost said?_   “Right,” Lexa said brightly.  “Goodnight, Clarke.”

“Goodnight, Lexa.”

*********

Clarke slid into her seat in the crowded Mexican restaurant.  “Sorry I’m late.”  She spied their waiter and waved him over.  “I’ll have a margarita, rocks, no salt.  Oh, and make it the el presidente.” 

Raven and Octavia looked at each other and then at Clarke.  Raven narrowed her eyes.  “Ok, Clarke, you’re never late for Taco Tuesday, and you never upsize your margarita.  What gives?” she prompted. 

Clarke dropped back in her chair and sighed.  “You’re going to think I’m crazy.”

Octavia scoffed.  “Please, Clarke, that ship has sailed.  Rae’s right, you seem really on edge.  What’s going on?”

Clarke chewed her lip pensively.  “I stayed late to meet with a researcher.  Dr. Woods.  Lexa.  And it’s the damndest thing, but I’m sure I’ve seen her before.”  _I *know* where I’ve seen her, but they’ll never believe me_. 

Raven shrugged and scooped some salsa onto a chip.  “What’s so weird about that?  You’ve probably run into her at some conference, or maybe she’s stopped by the museum before.  Is she local?”

“Yeah, she’s on faculty at Polis.  But that’s the thing, she’s never been to the museum, and I would swear that we’ve never met.  I’d remember _her_.” 

Octavia and Raven looked at Clarke with new interest.  “Ohhh, so she’s _memorable_ ,” Octavia cooed.  Under their combined, merciless prodding and fortified with a gulp of margarita, Clarke finally caved.  

“Oh my God, you guys, she’s gorgeous,” she gushed.  “I’d say she’s probably about my age.  She had on these skinny jeans cuffed at the ankles and her legs just kept _going_.  And a tweed blazer with elbow patches.  _Elbow patches_.”  Clarke covered her face with both hands.

Octavia and Raven snickered at her discomfiture.  “You’re so screwed,” Octavia commented, slurping down some of her margarita.

“Yeah, we’ve seen what that preppy nerd aesthetic does to you,” Raven agreed, grinning wickedly.

“Ugh, you don’t even _know_ ,” Clarke whined.  “And then, when I was showing her around the museum, _then_ she put on these tortoiseshell glasses to read the displays.  It was _so_ fucking distracting, because her eyes just kept drawing me in….”  She hesitated for a moment.  “That’s actually why I’m sure I’ve seen her before.  I could never forget those eyes.”

“I still don’t see why that’s strange,” Raven insisted.  “If she’s over at Polis, you’ve probably crossed paths at a function somewhere along the line.”

Clarke shook her head adamantly.  “No, that’s not it.”  She rummaged through her briefcase and pulled out a small cardboard folder.  She laid it gently on the table, unopened, and drew a deep, shaky breath.  “This is the weird part.  She passed the folder to Octavia and said, “This is her.”

Octavia opened it to find a small, carefully colorized daguerreotype of a young man—boy, really—in an overlarge Union blue jacket.  His shaggy, shoulder-length brown hair straggled from under his kepi, set at a rakish angle on his head.  His high cheekbones and full, curving lips seemed almost…girlish.  His eyes, their deep green hue meticulously detailed by some unknown hand, stared back at the viewer with bold defiance.  Octavia processed the image and handed the photograph to Raven with a puzzled frown.  “That doesn’t make sense, this picture has got to be, like, over a hundred years old.”

“One hundred and fifty-three.”

Raven also looked skeptical.  “Plus it’s a dude, Clarke.  I’ll admit, those eyes are something else, though.”  She handed the image back to Clarke, who cradled it protectively.  “If _Dr. Woods_ looks anything like him....” She gave a low whistle and shot Clarke a cheeky grin.  “I want her number if you don’t.” 

Clarke huffed in frustration.  “It’s more complicated than that.  The photo, it’s not—”

“Oh!  I know, Clarke,” Octavia interrupted.  “I bet this is some ancestor of hers.  A lot of those Civil War types get into it because they’re tracking down family history.  That would explain the eyes.”

Raven nodded vigorously and crunched on another chip.  “Yeah, that makes sense.”

Clarke deflated.  _If they won’t believe this, they’ll never believe the rest of it_.  “That could be.  You’re probably right,” she said in apparent agreement.

“ _So_?” Octavia prodded.  “You said she’s a researcher—is she coming back to the museum?”

“Yeah, next week.  We kind of have a…maybe a date?  I don’t know.”  She explained Lexa’s dinner offer.  “I’m pretty sure she was flirting with me,” she concluded.  “It was a little hard to tell, she seems kind of reserved.”  She took another sip of her drink.  “I may have flirted back a little bit,” she confessed.  The pink on her cheeks wasn’t solely due to the alcohol. 

Her friends reacted enthusiastically.  “You should totally go for it,” Raven urged, ticking off the reasons on her fingers.  “One, you’re single.  Two, she’s hot.  Three, elbow patches.  Four, if she’s a prof at Polis, she’s gotta be smart.  Five, uh, _elbow patches_ , Clarke!” she said, waggling her eyebrows.  She lowered her voice suggestively.  “I bet she has sweater vests, Clarke.  _Argyle_.  _Think_ of the possibilities.” 

Clarke hurled a chip at her in feigned outrage.  “You guys are terrible,” she grumbled goodnaturedly.

 *********  

Lexa shifted her battered leather briefcase to one shoulder and balanced the large, brown paper bag of take-out on her hip so she could ring the bell.  Her heart beat faster and she felt a little flutter of anticipation as she waited for Clarke to answer the door.  She’d looked forward to returning to Arkadia for the past week— _to review the collections_ , she told herself sternly.  _It has nothing to do with_ —

“Clarke,” she breathed in greeting as the door swung open. 

Clarke made a strangled sound and stared at Lexa much as she had on their first meeting.  “You’re wearing a _tie_ ,” she said incongruously.

Lexa looked a little perplexed and glanced down at herself.  The tails of her white button-down shirt peeked out from beneath the hem of her dark grey shawl-neck cardigan, and her loosely-knotted, narrow maroon tie hung askew from her collar, which was undone at the throat.  _I guess I do look a little rumpled_.  “Oh.  Yeah, I had class this afternoon.”  She was about to apologize for her disheveled appearance when Clarke startled, as if snapping out of a trance.  She reached out and relieved Lexa of the heavy bag of food.

“I…don’t know why I said that.  Sorry, let me help you.  Come on in.”  Lexa pulled the door shut behind herself and followed Clarke inside and up the stairs.  Lexa caught herself staring at the way Clarke’s ass flexed under her tunic-length, slate blue sweater as she climbed the stairs, and she forced herself to avert her eyes.  The flutter in her belly grew at the realization that she was being allowed entry to the museum’s— _Clarke’s_ —private space.  She looked around curiously, trying not to be too obvious about her interest.  They passed a room with a large desk cluttered with papers and files stacked haphazardly around it—clearly Clarke’s office.  A closed door across the hall was marked “Manuscript Collections.”  Lexa assumed that another closed door at the end of the hallway led to Clarke’s private quarters.  Clarke stopped before they reached it and led her into a compact kitchen space.  “This is our break room.  We try to keep food and liquids away from the displays,” Clarke explained.  “Plus it’s more comfortable to eat in here.”    

Lexa busied herself unpacking the food while Clarke retrieved plates and utensils.  She set them on the table and looked at Lexa with a bemused expression as she took in the multitude of containers on the table.  “I know it’s too much food,” Lexa said awkwardly, “but I wasn’t sure what you liked, and I figured we could always split up the leftovers.”

Clarke gave her a soft smile.  “That’s…actually really thoughtful.  Can I get you something to drink?  I’d offer you a glass of wine, but you probably want a clear head to work later.” 

“That’s true, maybe another time,” Lexa said without thinking.  Her eyes widened when she realized the implication.  “I mean, uh, water’s fine.”  She glanced at Clarke and caught her faint smirk as she turned to fill two glasses. 

They sat down and tucked into the food.  Lexa loosened up as they passed containers back and forth and soon they were conversing like old friends.  Clarke’s easy laugh and wide array of interests enthralled her, and before she knew it, she let slip several embarrassing childhood stories—“I tried to be George Washington for Halloween when I was nine”—and found herself on a passionate tangent about her distaste for the History Channel (“it’s all aliens and Hitler, Clarke!”).  Their conversation continued long after they had filled their bellies, until Clarke happened to check the time.

“Shit, Lexa, it’s nearly 8:30!  I’m so sorry, I got caught up in talking and kind of forgot why you were here.  I can’t stay too late tonight, I’ve got some early appointments tomorrow,” she said, with a guilty expression. 

“It’s no problem,” Lexa insisted.  “Really.  I…kind of forgot, too,” she admitted sheepishly.  “I’ve been having fun.  I like talking to you.”  She blushed a little at the admission and looked away. 

“Me, too,” Clarke agreed warmly.  “But I’ll feel bad if you don’t at least get a start on what you came to do.”  She cleared away their dishes and motioned Lexa to the hall.  “Let me set you up with the guide to our collections, and while you’re having a look, I’ll box up the leftovers for us to take home.” 

Lexa assented and they made their way downstairs to the research room.  She pulled out a notepad and pencil and began to peruse the binders that Clarke provided, making notes as she went along.  Clarke hung back for a moment in the doorway.  She watched Lexa become absorbed in the materials, tapping the eraser of her pencil against her full lower lip and absently tucking a stray curl behind the delicate shell of her ear.  Clarke’s shoulders sagged in a wistful sigh, and she reluctantly left Lexa to her own devices and returned to the kitchen.

Lexa lost herself in the finding aids.  She grew increasingly excited as she took in the scope of the resources and realized that it would require quite a few more visits to fully mine their depths.  She reminded herself firmly that she was there to research, not to see Clarke.  _But that’s definitely an added bonus_.  She tried to put Clarke out of her mind and focus on the task at hand, but just then she felt her presence in the room.  She looked around to see Clarke sitting in an armchair in the far corner of the room, hands crossed demurely in the lap of her skirt, gazing intently at Lexa.  She seemed a little fuzzy around the edges, and Lexa wiped her glasses on her shirttail to clear her vision.  “This is great, Clarke,” Lexa enthused.  “These are exactly the kind of sources I’ve been looking for, I can’t believe I haven’t been by before.”  Clarke smiled faintly, but said nothing.  Lexa bent her head back to her notes. 

When she looked up again, Clarke was leaning against the doorway with one black-booted ankle crossed in front of the other, biting her lip.  Lexa flushed as her eyes zeroed in on Clarke’s mouth, but she couldn’t quite tear her gaze away.  She dimly realized that Clarke’s lips were moving and she’d said something, but the words didn’t register immediately. 

“Lexa?” Clarke said with a questioning frown.

“Huh?  What?”  Lexa stuttered.  “I’m sorry, my mind was…somewhere else.  What did you say?”

“I said, it’s almost 9:30.  I’m sorry to cut you off, but I have to get home,” Clarke repeated patiently.

“Right!  Of course!”  Lexa regained her footing as she packed up her briefcase.  “There’s quite a few sources here I’d like to take a look at.  Do you think I could schedule another appointment?” she asked hopefully.

“Absolutely!  I’d love to!  Have you come back, that is,” Clarke added hastily, pink dotting her cheeks.  A frisson of warmth flared in Lexa’s belly, and she tried to contain the grin that threatened to spread from ear to ear. 

They consulted calendars and settled upon a few more evenings that suited both of their schedules.  Twice-a-week dinner and research quickly became a regular pattern, sometimes with Lexa picking up takeout and sometimes with Clarke providing the food.  And if Lexa spent more time chatting and laughing over the meal with Clarke and stealing increasingly frequent lingering glances than actually working in the research room, neither of them complained.  Some nights Lexa fit in several hours of work.  On others, she barely eked out thirty minutes.  But her heart warmed as every time, without fail, Clarke popped in to check on her.  Sometimes she sat in comfortable silence in the corner armchair for long spells, smiling encouragingly when Lexa broke her concentration to look up at her; other nights she simply flitted in and out without staying. 

Several weeks later, Lexa packed up her notes and laptop at the end of the evening.  She dawdled a little bit, dragging her leavetaking out, trying to summon the courage to make the move she’d longed to make since she met Clarke.  She shouldered her bag and flicked off the light in the research room on her way out.  Clarke met her in the hall near the front door.  “So, same time Thursday?” Clarke asked lightly.

“Sure, if that works for you,” Lexa said.  Her nerves jangled and she discreetly wiped sweaty palms on her chocolate brown corduroy trousers.  _You can do this, Lexa!  Just go for it.  What’s the worst that can happen?_   She took a deep breath and stepped closer, just into Clarke’s personal space.  Clarke inhaled as she absorbed Lexa’s closeness, but she didn’t move away.  “Clarke,” Lexa said softly, “I really enjoy spending time with you.”  Her focus began to slip as she took in the deepening blue of Clarke’s eyes.  She unconsciously reached up a hand to smooth a wayward wisp of hair off Clarke’s cheek.  Clarke’s breath hitched at the warm graze of her fingertips.  Lexa wet her lips and took the leap.  “I’d…like to see more of you—if you want to,” she said shyly, eyes full of hope.

Clarke drew closer, almost, but not quite touching Lexa.  “I do want,” she whispered, her eyes dropping to Lexa’s lips.  Lexa felt a surge of elation and desire.  She closed the distance between them and kissed Clarke, that same strange pulse of energy rippling through her as she gently brushed her mouth over the soft warmth of Clarke’s lips.  Clarke’s hand crept up to tangle in the fine curls at the nape of Lexa’s neck, holding her in place and prolonging the kiss.  She finally drew back with a relieved smile.  “I wondered whether you’d ever ask.”

Lexa felt an answering smile tug at her lips.  “I’ve been trying to work up to it for a couple of weeks,” she confessed.  “It’s been on the tip of my tongue every time you stop into the research room, but I couldn’t get the words out.”

Clarke gave her a strange look and pulled back just a hair.  “When I stop by the research room?”

“Yeah,” Lexa said, oblivious to Clarke’s reaction.  “It’s really sweet of you to check on me.  How come you never say anything?”

The smile froze on Clarke’s face and she gave Lexa an unreadable look.  “I…didn’t want to disturb your concentration,” she finally managed. 

“You kind of do that just by being around me,” Lexa said playfully, and Clarke’s tension eased a bit.  She kissed Lexa again, a fleeting slide of lips.

“Glad to know it’s working,” she joked, but the smile didn’t quite reach her eyes.  “I’ll see you Thursday.  Maybe we can figure something out for the weekend, if you’re not busy.”

“I’ll make time,” Lexa promised warmly.  “Goodnight, Clarke.” 

“Goodnight, Lexa.”  Lexa walked out the front door with a little spring in her step.  Clarke stood in the open doorway watching her leave, fingers pressed to tingling lips.  Shock and disbelief ran through her whole body. 

_This isn’t possible.  How the hell can this be happening?_


End file.
